Collision Course
by ThessalyMc
Summary: After Sherlock's collapse in 221b, John goes to have words with Mycroft. Missing scene from HLV.


**A/N: Many thanks to Sevenpercent, kate221b, and SailOnSilverGirl for lending me their eyeballs on early drafts.**

**I haven't said so in a while, but my non-ownership of the boys and their friends continues.**

* * *

"No, don't bother, I know where I'm going," John said as he marched past the desk in the lobby of the Diogenes club. The man seated at the desk half rose, but made no protest. John knew that he was reaching for the phone, instead, calling for security. The knowledge didn't change his determined stride. He neither slowed nor quickened his steps, merely setting his shoulders and continuing down the hallway.

He'd only ever been to the club twice before. The first time was at Mycroft's invitation, when the elder Holmes had given him information on the hit men who had moved in around Baker Street, and the vague instruction to watch Sherlock's back. The second visit had not been in response to an invitation.

There was no invitation for today's visit, either.

John could hear heavy footsteps hurrying after him. He didn't turn. Instead, he addressed the woman he saw ahead of him, just coming out of the office toward which he was headed.

"I'm not armed, Anthea."

"You don't need to be armed to be dangerous, Doctor Watson," Anthea replied steadily.

He saw her eyes shift from him to the security detail behind him. A hand closed on his right bicep. Another clamped down on his left shoulder. John allowed them to halt his progress, but did not take his eyes from Anthea. He cocked his head at her, mouth fixed in a firm line. She studied him briefly, then nodded, waving the guards off. The hand on his shoulder slipped away, but the grip on his arm tightened. John spun around, glaring at the man who held him. Moving with exaggerated care that spoke volumes of control – making him paradoxically appear more threatening rather than less – John reached across and wrapped his hand around the guard's wrist. Exerting just enough pressure, he pulled the grasping hand from his arm and dropped it, taking a step back.

"He's in, then?" John asked mildly, addressing Anthea while still watching as the guard flicked his eyes to the PA at John's shoulder, then scowling, glared at John before turning away.

"He is."

John turned and shouldered past her, into the large office. He closed the door in her face, then paused, resting his forehead lightly against the paneled wood, breathing deeply to calm himself. He knew that Mycroft was watching him. He didn't care.

"Reports from the hospital say that Sherlock has come through his second surgery without further complications," Mycroft began.

"I know that, Mycroft. Do you think I'd have left him there without knowing he'd pulled through?" John asked through clenched teeth, pushing his forehead harder into the door before turning to glare at the man behind the desk. "He's sedated, and will be kept under overnight. At your … suggestion … it seems. You do realise that sedation carries its own risks?"

"I am aware."

"And you ordered the doctors to keep him under, in spite of the danger?"

"I gave no orders, John."

"Of course not. You just, what, _implied_ that it would be best if Sherlock was drugged into unconsciousness? Best for whom, though? Not for the patient – not for Sherlock."

"Are you so sure?" Mycroft responded. "Look what he did last time. He escaped the hospital to put himself back into the line of fire, and in so doing, he did himself further injury."

"Are you going to have him sectioned, then? That's the next logical step, isn't it? To keep him safe from himself?"

"I have a duty ..."

"Fuck you, Mycroft. Sherlock is perfectly competent to make his own choices, even when they are mistakes."

"Doctor Watson ..."

"No, Mycroft. I will fight you on this, don't think that I won't. Leave his medical care to the professionals. I've no doubt you've brought in the best doctors England has to offer, so piss off and let them do their jobs. Your interference could prove disastrous. You put him at risk once in this whole farce of an investigation already. Don't do it again."

"I put him at risk? I believe you're now well aware that it was your dear wife who ..."

"Yes," John cut in abruptly. "Yes, I am bloody _well aware_ of that, Mycroft. That's not the point, though, is it?"

"Then what, pray tell, is the point?" Mycroft drawled.

"She shot him," John said flatly, "but you put him there."

John took a measured step forward and reached forward to clamp his hands over the heavy wooden frame of the guest chair. His knuckles were white with the strength of his grip. He noted a subtle shift in Mycroft's gaze, though the other man's expression did not change. John knew that he couldn't read people the way either of the Holmes brothers could, but he recognised guilt when he saw it.

"Did you know? About _her_?"

"John, please, have a seat."

"I don't want a bloody seat, Mycroft. Did you know? Oh, what am I saying – of course you did. When did you know, hmm?" John released his grip on the chair and slid one hand into his pocket, his hand clenching around the USB thumb drive he found there. He tossed it to land on Mycroft's desk before he could give in to the desire to launch it across the room at the other man. "How long have you known what's on there?"

He watched Mycroft pick up the drive and turn it over to show the initials written on it. The elder Holmes brother sighed and sank back in his chair.

"Months, John," he said with a heavy sigh. "Almost since the beginning."

"Only almost?" John asked with an angry smile. "You're slipping."

"She's very good."

"Lovely. That's lovely," John replied. "So, you've known – since _almost_ the beginning – who she was? _What_ she was? Still is, apparently? And still, you sent him in to Magnussen's office ..."

"John," Mycroft began, "If you recall, I specifically forbade him to ..."

"Is that what you tell yourself? Does it let you sleep at night? Because I'll tell you, Mycroft, that is a load of absolute bollocks, and you know it," John retorted angrily, stabbing a finger in Mycroft's direction. "You are fully aware of how he responds to ultimatums from anyone, and it's twice as bad coming from you. Demand that he do something and he'll dig in his heels and refuse. Insist that he can't do something and he will move heaven and earth to prove you wrong. You know this, Mycroft. _You know this._ You were counting on it. You manipulative bastard. You goaded him into taking Magnussen on. You put him on this path and then made sure he'd follow it to the end, and it nearly ended him."

John was shouting now. He ducked his head down, trying to regain control.

"You sent him into her line of fire, Mycroft," he said with deceptive softness, not lifting his head. "And she nearly killed him. Did kill him, actually. His heart stopped. _She_ killed him," he looked up and met Mycroft's gaze, held it steadily, "but _you_ put him in her path."

Mycroft did not look away, but made no reply. John huffed an angry breath and raised both hands to scrub at his face, raking his fingers through his hair.

"So? What now? Will you tell me why?" John asked, moving to finally sink down into the chair. "Will you tell me why you keep playing with his life? Or did you two work out another thirteen scenarios for this?"

"Is that what you want to know, John?" Mycroft asked. "You wouldn't rather know about her?"

"I'm not … I can't deal with her yet. I'll read the bloody data stick later. You can fill in any remaining blanks then," John replied, then drew a deep breath. "So? Magnussen. Tell me."

Mycroft put the USB thumb drive down and rose, moving around the desk. John watched as he reached for the decanter on the side table and poured two stiff glasses. He accepted the one Mycroft handed him before the elder Holmes brother collapsed in the opposite chair.

"I needed him to investigate Magnussen, John. I've needed to get him on that case for years. Since before he made your acquaintance," Mycroft admitted.

"What stopped you, then? Given his obvious hatred for Magnussen, it should have been easy to bring him in, even if the case came from you."

"Ah, but that's just it, John. The case couldn't come from me. I was not permitted to involve my brother in any investigation that led to Magnussen."

"Not permitted? Since when?" John asked with a snort of disbelief.

Mycroft gave a small laugh.

"For all that my brother will insist that I am the British Government, my position is not as high as all that."

"So you do have superiors."

"I am … accountable," Mycroft answered, though John could see the flicker of distaste at the notion that his employers were 'superior' in any sense.

"And your employers didn't want him brought in. Because Magnussen has something on them."

"I'm not certain whether they feared Magnussen, or Sherlock's investigation, more. Magnussen could be counted on to keep secret his knowledge of things others might wish to remain hidden, so long as it was to his advantage to do so. Sherlock comes with no such guarantee."

"So they valued their secrets more than the safety of the nation."

"The safety of the nation was never at risk. That was the problem. If he had made threats against national security, someone would have moved against him. Someone would have sacrificed their reputation for the good of the country."

"Someone would have been convinced to do so, you mean."

"Do you believe that there are none who would do so without … persuasion?"

"Would you?"

"Magnussen has nothing on me, John."

"Nicely sidestepped, Mycroft," John said, amused in spite of his irritation. He sipped his scotch while the other man's lips quirked faintly.

"After Lady Smallwood approached Sherlock, I received an invitation that could not be refused, and spent a rather uncomfortable afternoon making it clear that I had no hand in her decision to take her case to my brother. I was then instructed to order Sherlock to desist. I had no choice but to warn him off the case. Firmly. Unfortunately, my brother is recalcitrant."

"Which suited your purposes just fine."

Mycroft didn't respond, sipping his scotch slowly.

"I didn't know Mary would be there, John," he said, breaking the silence. "We knew that he had reached out to her, and we were watching for her response. She had scheduled a meeting with him for half ten next Tuesday morning."

"No, wait," John interrupted. "She's got a doctor visit then. For the … damn. For the baby. Told me it was a routine appointment for measurements – nothing interesting to see – and that I shouldn't worry about coming along."

John gulped down a mouthful of scotch, grimacing at the burn.

"We assumed that she would take no action before meeting with him," Mycroft continued. "We were incorrect. It would appear that she felt pressured to move things along more quickly."

"But why did she move now? She had a plan ..."

"She must have worried about her abilities to complete the job as she became more compromised by her condition."

"Her condition," John repeated. "Another thing that's my fault, then."

"Your fault?" Mycroft asked, clearly surprised.

"Of course. All my fault. Always my fault."

"And here I thought you were blaming me."

"Oh, I am. You put him there. That is all you," John responded. He stared for a moment at the amber liquid still in his glass, swirling it slowly. "But I put her there."

"She put herself there, John."

"Yeah," John replied, then asked, "And just how did she do that, anyway? She didn't get out past me, so she had an alternative exit. Same way she got in, then? But Sherlock said there was no other way past the building security."

"For all the experience Sherlock gained working undercover over his two year … hiatus … you must remember that he is a detective, and not an agent. He lacks the specific training that would have pointed out the other means of ingress."

"And that was?"

"The helipad."

"She broke in to the building through the helipad? How did she get up there? Scale the walls?" John asked incredulously. He rolled his eyes and leaned his head back in the strained silence that followed. "Oh God, she did, didn't she? Sherlock really ought to have seen that one coming. Not the first time we've run in to that trick."

"I suspect she had a bit more technological assistance than your Chinese acrobat."

"She probably did, at that," John agreed with a sour smile, then he tossed back the last of the scotch and stood, placing the empty glass on the side table. "I have to get back. I have to be there when he wakes up. Make whatever calls you need to make to let his doctors know that you're done interfering with their medical decisions."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment. John nodded and turned to the door.

"John?"

John turned, his hand on the door knob. Mycroft had risen from his chair and was standing now with his hand outstretched, the memory stick lying across his palm.

"Right," John said, moving to take the thumb drive and tuck it into his pocket. He hesitated for a minute. "If I have questions ..."

"I'll tell you what I can, of course."

"Of course. Right. Well then, I'd best be off. Good night, Mycroft.

"Good night, Doctor Watson."

John turned his back on Mycroft and opened the door. He nodded briefly at Anthea as he passed her in the hallway, ignoring the glare of the security guard at her side.

He was unsurprised to find a car waiting to take him back to the hospital.


End file.
